Everytime You Go
by ember53608
Summary: Long, slender fingers become a fist, hovering in front of a shut door. But after only a moment of second thought, they unfurl and fall to her sides. She turns away, mug in one hand, air flowing through the finger holes of the other. In another corner of the mansion, a bat, flapping inside of an old grandfather clock, squeaks loudly. She doesn't hear the echo.


**My God. I have not posted anything in, like, forever. Even this doesn't count - considering I posted it on DeviantArt around the end of June. Ah, marching band, what an helplessly addicting abostacle of life you are. ;)  
Anyway, this was something I - again - submitted through DeviantArt a while after the episode "Depths" aired; it basically acts as a sort of aftermath following the episode. Reviews - containing constructive crtiticism, perferably - are much appreciated, and if y'all have any prompts - please, don't wait to say anything. I _really_ need some material here. **

**Disclaimer: Young Justice, in no way, belongs to me - if it did, who knows how horribly the plot line would've been butchered. Oh, and of course, I sadly do not own Ellie Goulding, either. *sigh***

* * *

_**Everytime You Go**_

_Wake me up, wake me up, s__top my fall_

_Everytime you go_

Mourning is not something the brooding clone thinks he has seen before, or at least, not in this way. Rather than there being cries of anguish and exaggerated curses to the enemy, the atmosphere about the cave is quiet, sullen, unannounced. In some ways, it resembles a ripple effect, the news traveling wordlessly from one person to the other, eventually reaching each. And of course, like the ripple effect, the aftermath isn't one of abrupt overreactions, but one of eerie and unquestionable silence.

Most everyone – with the exception of those who live in the cave – has left by the time the black haired beauty strides into the living room, seating herself wordlessly upon one of the barstools. For a while, she simply stays there, twirling a strand of hair with her finger, glancing nonchalantly about. He raises an eyebrow – she's seated maybe only a foot away from him – but says nothing, instead waiting patiently for her to open up to him herself.

It takes almost half an hour before her electric blue eyes meet his own; she gives him a small smile, then lowers her gaze towards her lap. There is no more interaction between them after that.

She can't help but lift her head in wonder when she hears his name, electronically announced by the cave's computer. Her fingers furl about the edge of her black, leather purse when he walks in, still clothed in the black and blue garb; even the mask hasn't yet made its way off of his face. She grins inwardly at that last part; after all, it is one of those trademark qualities of his.

"Dick," she says, stepping off of the barstool; her signature heels click against the floor, an awkward flaw to the enduring silence.

"Zee."

She walks up, the click of her heels now louder and more pronounced. Without hesitation, she takes his gloved hands into her own, and as she lifts her gaze, attempts to stare past the whites of his mask, she can't help but notice how irritated she is by the fact that she isn't actually touching his skin. "What happened?"

It's all she can seem to ask.

She waits, never looking away, never ceasing in her search to find those innocent, childish, blue pupils. And even when his right hand slips away, to run its fingers through his hair, and her fingers begin to helplessly tremble, and a tear trails its way down her face – her gaze does not waver.

"I don't know," he breathes, then pushing gently past her.

She makes no attempt to stop him.

She is still there, nine minutes later, when he once again makes his way past her, wordlessly heading for the zeta tubes. And she is still there, seventeen seconds later, when he has left.

The tears are gone, absorbed into her pale skin. Bangs shade her eyes; she leaves them open. Her jaw isn't taught. Her teeth aren't grit together either. A smile dons her innocent features. Her voice is a whisper. Haunting. "I should leave," she says, as if expecting him to hear.

She walks away then, pulling her coat on as she makes her way out the room. But when she spies Connor, back resting against the wall as he thinks, she stops, looks back. Lain across the couch is a figure, its body given warmth by a spread flannel blanket; the green skin and scarlet tufts of hair instantly give it away.

A soft smile flickers across her face. She makes her way to the zeta tubes, glances one last time at the clone, leaves. Within only a few seconds, she is out on the bustling streets of Gotham, thinking. Fumbling around with her phone, she comments, "I would've killed for a guy like that."

Anyone would have.

* * *

Oddly enough, the young magician isn't the only one present in Gotham that night. There are others, others who mourn just as well, despite all of the hardships they have already been through. Because, no matter how many times you may have seen it before, there is not one thing or person in the world which can spare you from the pain of a death. Not one.

Tonight, the local commissioner's daughter is not where she is supposed to be, typing away on a laptop at police headquarters. Rather, she is inside of a mansion, the walls looming about her eerily as she lays her head down on a table. She's been this way for over an hour now, arms wrapped about her head, blue eyes staring lazily through the space between them. Sleep hasn't yet found its way to her place at the table, just outside the kitchen, maybe ten feet from the front door.

No, not yet.

"Master Dick, would you-

"Not now, Alfred."

She lifts her head, watches. She can see his figure, pushing past Alfred, making its way into the main hallway. Pushing the chair out from behind her, she stands, then steadying herself against the table's edge. Shifting her gaze, she glances over at the other side of the table, lets out a sigh. Extending a slender hand, she ruffles the teenage boy's hair, all the while assuring herself that he's asleep. He gives a soft moan, tilting his head to the side. His glasses are still there, askew.

Drawing her hand away, then, she makes her way into the hallway, a cup of milk - cold by now - held in her right hand. Her slippers slide against the wooden floor, making barely a sound. She pauses, thinks for a moment, starts up again. Only this time, that silent sliding of her fuzzy, black slippers, unnoticed, turns into a persistent scuffle, wanting to be heard. She looks up, sees the back of his head, the ruffled black hair. He doesn't turn to look back.

She dips down her gaze, stares into cerulean blue eyes devoid of their usual spark – her own. Pushing a lock of red hair behind her ear, she smiles, thinks, moves forward.

A doorknob turns. A door is pushed open. She lifts her head, shifts her line of eyesight to the left. Eight years - for eight years she has been walking down the intimidating hallways of this mansion, resting atop a looming cliff on the outskirts of town. That door, the one which was just pushed open, happens to be the second to last of this hallway. His.

Quickening her pace, she makes for the door, left hand outstretched. "Dick? Are you sure everything's-

The door is shut, its lock clicked into place. She stands there, fingers just a few inches from the doorknob, extended in the hopes of finding a callused hand. Her voice is calm, worrisome - an attempt at reaching out to a partner, love interest, and childhood friend.

Long, slender fingers become a fist, hovering in front of a shut door. But after only a moment of second thought, they unfurl and fall to her sides. She turns away, mug in one hand, air flowing through the finger holes of the other. In another corner of the mansion, a bat, flapping inside of an old grandfather clock, squeaks loudly. She doesn't hear the echo.

She's slipping on her beat up sneakers from last year, fumbling with the knot on the left one, when he comes trudging into the foyer. His glasses aren't tilted anymore, and they rest level on the bridge of his nose. He trails a hand through his hair, smoothes it out. Looking at him, she can't help but feel as if she's back in elementary school again, meeting the world renowned millionaire's adopted son for the first time.

"You're not staying?"

Though his voice sounds purely laid back, there is an edge to it, a hint of worry - she doesn't think she's sensed it before now. No, not in him. For a moment, she's hushed into silence, unsure of what to say. "No, I- I can't."

"It's Dick, isn't it?" She looks up from the shoelaces. Stares. Searches. Finds nothing. Chuckling, she turns back to focus on her left sneaker, on which she still hasn't managed to tie the knot.

"What about him?" Her voice cracks.

He releases a puff of invisible air, looks at the room about him. Seemingly distracted, says, "You know what I mean, Barb."

Around the tree, through the hole - it's tied. She stands, takes her umbrella from the stand - it's raining outside – rests her hand on the doorknob, smiles. "Night, Tim."

As she steps out the door, she brings up the umbrella, extends it, rests it ever so slightly against her left shoulder. With every step it bounces, gently, popping up about a centimeter in the air every other second. She frowns a bit, thinks of lifting the umbrella off of her shoulders.

It stays.

Her car, a blur of polished black against the murky, gray clouds, hovering about, rests just in front of her now. The keys are in the back pocket of her jeans, forming an irregular bump in the smooth fabric. She reaches for them, feels the cool touch of jagged metal, stops.

A shake of the head is all it takes to pull them out.

She's settling herself inside the car now, adjusting the temperature, finding a good station on the radio. Doing anything to avoid glancing at the picture hanging from atop the bridge of the rearview mirror. It's not recent, though it isn't old either; somewhere in between, perhaps. She isn't quite sure, to be honest. Doesn't want to be sure.

Letting out a sigh, she presses her heel to the gas pedal, begins to make her way down the cliff. The rain pounds down, relentless, and yet, all she can do is stare ahead, into the foggy array. As she intends, the windshields remain still, the rain blurring her view of the world about her. She tightens her grip on the steering wheel, scrunches up her eyes, pushes her head back against the seat. Vents.

Of course, nothing happens.

Nothing.

* * *

_Tape me up, then break me up_

_Ever so gently, w__hen I'm at my weakest_

_It's not so hard_

_Everytime you go_


End file.
